Dreamscape
by Wordgawk
Summary: When a mystery dangles in front of Keats in the form of Ellen, ignoring her might not be the wisest plan.
1. Question

**Author's note: Fleshed out characters, interesting cinematic choice using frames, and haunting music, that's what Folklore is.**

**What else is this game? Way out there in no-man's land, that's what. Here I thought Ico had few stories! That means if you do read this story, _please_ leave feedback. It's always good to know if any fans are still out there. This will be a two part fic. :)  
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Dreamscape

The holy grail. It's such a grandiose label to slap onto such a small thing like a book, but Keats feels allure tugging at him like a tightening noose around his neck. The torture has festered with growing intensity. Every time Keats lifts his head from his work and drops his gaze across the room to a certain relaxation spot, the curiosity urge refreshes itself. Like a winding noose, time does not abate his curiosity. Typing his article distracts him. It doesn't quell the hunger.

Tossed across his couch with her back facing him is Ellen. She visited after lunch, saying she wanted a place to pore over said tome of hers. Strangely, Ellen considered the Unknown Realms office "homey". Keats rejected the plan out of noise factor, but Ellen wholeheartedly promised to keep quiet. She had a tote bag. It seemed fairly full. That indicated to Keats that she'd keep busy. Besides, she looked very anticipatory about something when she asked him to stay, and almost fearful of his refusal. What was the big deal with her being here of all places?

Well, only one way to find out and get to the bottom of this new mystery. Keats relented.

So there they have it. Ellen is there on his squishy couch and Keats is here on his hard chair. Keats doesn't pay attention to the passing day, but he knows they've gone with gusto at whatever it is that makes them tick. For him, yet another deadline. For Ellen... Keats must pause. He doesn't know. He wants to.

Ellen indeed stands by her promise. She makes nary a noise past the sporadic shuffle of pages or a trip to the loo and Keats approves. If anything, Keats' clacking typewriter keys creates enough ruckus for both people combined. Hell, his gnashing teeth at running into frustration over and over could be a whole new category for cacophony.

Keats' progress crawls. When there's some form of sound coming from him, all is good. Muttering into his clunky tape recorder, shuffling documents around on his desk, or even changing the ink ribbon meant developments.

When the thwacking keys ceases due to a horrible bout of writer's block, the office turns despairingly silent. Damn, inspiration is lost.

Break. Keats slumps into his chair and tilts himself back. His arms hang at his sides and he shuts his eyelids, steeping in the blackness behind them.

Ellen materializes at his side. He doesn't even notice until she speaks and it's not until then when he glances at her. She asks him if he wants a cup of tea or strong java. She timidly smiles, cheerful.

Keats frowns, not grasping what was humorous. He gives her his empty mug which he forgot had run dry. He doesn't care about either drink. The cup soon returns with hellishly hot, rich coffee which he swears the pot the liquid came from went tepid long ago. The bitter, black coffee agrees with the working him. A sandwich plate follows the beverage. Lettuce and sliced ham neatly poke out from under the bread. Keats looks up in inquiry.

Ellen finds the question lingering in his eyes. Explains how she didn't think she was so hungry until this instant.

Over Ellen's shoulder, Keats spies the wall clock on the far wall to the right and silently chides himself. It's been too many hours since Ellen arrived to not owe her something to eat. Hosts do not let guests starve, let alone completely omit making a decent meal throughout the whole day. That's what Keats got for never having company while working. Keats really ought to remember to stock up on edibles.

He clears his throat, tacking an extra sticky mental note to his forehead to make a sandwich for Ellen in the future. He nods thanks.

With food in his stomach and caffeine dislodging the kinks out of his mental gears, Keats is ready to go. He takes out the rubbish sheet that's totally unpublishable and inserts a new pristine white sheet. His fingers poise above the typewriter and he takes in a breath before playing his concerto.

The next break comes and he lets his mind wander. It tiptoes to Ellen who he assumed had been writing for as long as he had typing. She can't see him from her position, but he can on her.

The respite from rhythmic mechanical keys allows Keats to notice a handful of colored markers on the floor next to Ellen. Her scribbling arm moves slow and steady and changes to quick strokes.

Highlighting passages? The thought reminds Keats of his college days, filled with study and flighty romps to break up monotony.

Later, he wills himself to believe. He'll find out later what she's up to, after he completes this damn assignment.

His fingers grudgingly prattle on.

Who knows how long Keats has tranced for, but he looks up to get air. Evening has already set; out his windows he sees blackness. Wearily removes his glasses and rubs his bleary eyes.

The spectacles find their way back to the bridge of his nose. Expecting Ellen to still be scratching away in her journal, Keats glances over to find out what color marker she has in hand. Then he can start guessing at what she was doodling and _really_ get sidetracked.

Only, she has no drawing utensil in possession. Her braided pale mane is slumped to the side of the couch on a throw pillow, her arms loosely resting on top of her belongings in her lap.

The girl is asleep.

Oh yes, this means a blanket is in order, Keats plots. Ellen is the one to receive the order as Keats must drape it over her. As he does so, if his eyes stray to her work all laid out in the open, he wasn't prying in the slightest.

A mischievous grin crosses Keats' face. He pushes away his chair and stands with a needed stretch.

Holding an extra blanket from the closet, Keats unrolls it as he steps over to Ellen's dozing form.

She probably won't appreciate ruined pages by rolling on them. He justifies himself as his fingertips reach out for the pad and his gaze almost lowers to take in the contents of those pages. His peripheral vision can detect colors, but shape or words he cannot.

He watches her face. Peaceful. Relaxed with trust.

His outstretched hand toward the open book catches the edge of the cover. It gently lifts up and closes. What fun were surprises when nobody could witness his?

Trailing his gaze downwards, Keats lightly tugs at the perpetually mysterious book and the bright markers out of her hands and sets them near her bag. He can wait.

A fuzzy cloak of warmth settles over her. When it does and Keats straightens, Ellen shifts onto her side. She would have effectively crushed her work beneath her, had Keats not been imbued with such brilliant foresight.

Keats smirks. Perhaps silence isn't so bad.


	2. Answer

Chapter 2

Ellen is back again for another day of diligent doodling or creative highlighting in her sketchpad. Keats can't tell. Today, she faces him from the couch, her knees drawn up near her chin and her book spread open on the apex of her legs.

She's mysterious when Keats can view her expression for however long he likes from his typewriter. He gets to contemplate what she thinks about when she sketches and if anything instructive or philosophical does enter her mind while she creates her art.

Of course, when one works diligently for a stretch, hunger will set in. Ellen has the same thought for she soon is staring inside his forlornly meager fridge. Keats remembers he should've stocked up on edibles. He knows he has eaten already. He just isn't sure he has enough stock to eat again tonight without getting sick of whatever food he stuffs in his mouth.

"Keats, can you tell me something?" comes the muffled perturbed question. They speak more than three words during this visit.

The reporter is being a grammar police as he pores over a page of gibberish he wrote at an ungodly hour today. He inadvertently grins at the word _shtick_ when two letters in mid-word are mixed up to spell a rather bold word not suitable for print. He scribbles it out with his pen. "Mmm?"

"Is this the same sandwich stuff from the last time I came over?"

"No." The lie flows out while he distractedly skims a broken passage.

Ellen shuts the door with a plaintive thud. "It is!" She claps her hands in a stream of inspiration. "I'll pick up something for us right now."

"Yes, dear." Keats, still in his editing zone, mumbles this in sardonic quip, not paying attention to his words.

"What did you say?"

It's the amount of sheer amazement in Ellen's voice that finally pulls Keats out of editing and into reality. Ellen is staring at him wide-eyed.

Keats frowns a bit. Blinks in confusion. He sets down his paper to distance himself from work. Then he remembers what he spoke. They're not married and they're not dating. He amends. "I meant do be a dear and buy something decent. Here." He pats his back pockets for his wallet and stands.

Seeing Keats take out a couple paper bills, Ellen placates him with a wave of her hands. "No, no, I have money."

Keats won't hear it. Funds in hand, he moves in front of her. He takes one of her hands and pushes the cash right into her palm, then closes her fingers over it. "Get whatever you want."

Ellen nervously presses her lips together as her green gaze flits from their nearly entwined fingers to his face. "U-um, thank you, Keats." She becomes excited and brightly smiles. "Ok, I'll go. Can I leave my things here?"

He doesn't mind. While she's gone silence will truly reign in the place. With silence, it will give him a chance to look unchecked at her-

"Feel free." Deliberately, Keats is still clasping her warm hand. How small it is from this view.

Giggling shortly, Ellen lets him go. "Great. Thanks again. Be back soon."

She is merry as her boots slip on her feet. The front door clicks shut. Keats breathes a sigh.

He is alone. Alone with his novels, musings, and the faint aroma of coffee beans in the air.

Keats strolls back to his table and plunks down again. He refreshes his typewriter with a new sheet of paper. His vision grazes past sepia-hued tomes and wood paneling, resting on the vivid colors of Ellen's markers, so sharply contrasting and beckoning for use.

Alone with temptation. He wets his lips.

He isn't going to. He promised himself he wouldn't think about that book.

Scratch that; Keats is going to think about it, but peeking is a whole other issue. He'll invade Ellen's privacy and that is not something he will simply shrug off and forget.

He stands up and his feet tap across the room to his marker-covered couch. Keats feels an irritating rush as his interest gnaws. His fingers wrap around the damned book and he releases it just as quick. His legs swerve him around to his work area. Resistance is a conscious effort today.

Keats stares hard at his typewriter, at the hard black font on sterile white paper. This cruel captivation Ellen has over him.

The door bursts open. Well, it's really a nudge, but Keats startles all the same. He flushes slightly at his timorous reaction.

Ellen doesn't see it because she is busy trying to remove her footwear with one hand while the other clutches the bag of groceries against her stomach.

"Need assistance?" Keats is glad for the intrusion. Save himself from chewing too long on his hard tack of curiosity.

"Please." Ellen teeters as her second boot his giving her trouble. She peeks gratefully around her bag at him.

Keats chuckles at the simplicity of her solution. "You may want to put down the bag before you take off your boots."

Ellen blushes when he doesn't rise from his seat to aid her. "R-right." She follows his advice and when the bag gathers in her arms again, Ellen makes a path to the kitchenette.

He has squirmed enough. Keats gets up and goes to Ellen, watching her unpack some muffins and canned beverages. "What are you working on?"

"Work?" Ellen utters the word like she's never heard it before.

Keats spots a bran muffin but chooses not to snag it until she satisfies him. "The book you brought."

Ellen's eyes glow but her face shies away. "Um, some drawings."

Didn't she have a dedicated place to do that sort of thing? "Don't you sketch at home? Why here?"

"It sounds weird."

Leaning against the counter, Keats raises a brow. "I was in the Netherworld and an invisible man spoke. Try me."

Ellen fiddles with the tab on a juice can, halfway set on breaking the seal. "I can concentrate here."

"There's noise. Me typing and my teeth grinding in thought. How can you concentrate with that?"

Ellen shrugs off his observations.

"May I?" He gestures to the direction of her belongings.

"Oh! Yes. Mmm, maybe no." Indecision makes her tug at her long braid.

"Which is it?" Keats asks impatiently. Being strung along to almost see her artwork for days is not the best motivation to be nice.

"They're not very good. I'm starting..."

"Everyone starts at the beginning." As if that statement isn't rudimentary enough.

It does push Ellen, though. "Right! Ok, take a look, but no laughing." The excitement bubbles off her tongue and she practically skips to the couch. Keats leisurely trails after her. He stops in front of her and waits.

Ellen cracks open her hard cover and flips a couple pages to search. She flashes him a detailed sketch of Scarecrow. Deep, dark outlines and scratches of color shade inside the lines. Her smile is nervous and her eyes bright.

Keats is impressed with the appeal of simple strokes and minimalist coloring. "What an accomplishment. You've made him look... cute." Was that possible? Last time Keats caught an image of him, he wasn't a shrimpy stick. He had been large. Very large.

There isn't a number to define how many watts Ellen's smile lights up to. "You think so? Thank you. Compared to how he was at the end of our Doolin adventure, I think so, too." Ellen flips another page and the next set contains sketches of familiar IDs Keats recalls from his trips to the Netherworld. She passes through additional sketches, some rough, some half-colored. She stops on a spread full of vibrant hues and careful lines. It's obvious this piece took effort. She passes the tome to Keats.

Over the two pages, Livane takes up a side and Herve resides on the other. With an arm outstretched, they reach for one another. Hopeful expressions grace their faces.

Keats' eyes bore in the image of Herve, drawn here with more likeness to the real person he had been and not from the jittery hand of a youngster. Were those encouraging eyes the same ones Herve watched Cecilia with before his demise?

Ellen notices his attention is on that artwork and she taps it. "He looks better than my past attempt way back when, huh?"

He can't argue with that assessment. "Livane's not bad, either." The familiar spirals of hair on the woman conjure previous times in the Netherworld before Keats knew anything about her and how he glared at the back of her head from her enigmatic answers as he followed her from behind. Keats looks inquiringly at Ellen. "Drawing for fun?"

"Yes. I want to make these into a picture book."

"Publishing?" Keats' ears pick up in intrigue.

Ellen nods. "Not a professional expenditure, but like a scrapbook, only with a binding."

"Don't picture books contain writing?"

Ellen shyly twines her fingers. "I hoped you could help me with that part."

Keats arcs his head slightly and his lenses glint from the overhead lighting, obscuring her from sight. "You want me to write for you?"

"A collaboration." Ellen grins.

A fascinating idea he never would have imagined. He adjusts his glasses and Ellen is in clear view again. Her eyes shine with optimism.

"I'll consider it."

His answer is neutral. It doesn't commit, nor does it reject. Ellen's joyous expression brightens.

- THE END -


End file.
